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What Wins?

by George Hoerner

is it the wind that whips
through the fall trees
ripping the dead leaves
from their homes

maybe the slow cold
creeping frost freezing
moist grass in its place
as winter makes its advance

could it be the bold return
of spring storms flooding
all in its path providing
fields their nourishment

is it the summer sun floating
across the land calling nature’s
life to rise to the occasion
and pulling it from the ground

none of these
as they are all just
time’s seconds
ticking away existence

and we know little of it
we just invented the word
time – over which we have
no control nor understanding

time eats our memories
after eons leaving them
not even as dust in space
as it moves on searching
for forever


Posted on 04/13/2009
Copyright © 2024 George Hoerner

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 04/14/09 at 12:47 AM

The seasons are well-represented here. It moves quite wonderfully with the emotion that runs through this. I especially love that last stanza.

Posted by Charlie Morgan on 04/14/09 at 02:20 PM

geore, well written, flows, and has your touch of 'all-encompassing' knowledge touching all...take a look a clara mae's pome, on today's listing...can't think of her last name or even the title...harrrrumph...good write on yours bubba.

Posted by Charlie Morgan on 04/14/09 at 02:23 PM

...clara mae gregory..."Too Late" her pome...i told her of yours too.

Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 04/14/09 at 03:04 PM

"and we know little of it we just invented the word time – over which we have no control nor understanding" - well said and the crux of it.

Posted by Clara Mae Gregory on 04/14/09 at 06:11 PM

I love this,for who wouldn't? Another for my favorites. Charlie gave me a little hint that I should read this....and I am so glad he did, for I MIGHT have missed this.This is too good to miss!

Posted by Alisa Js on 04/16/09 at 07:39 AM

I agree completely with the other comments....awesome done, you!

Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 01/24/13 at 12:10 PM

It could very well be, George, that we eat time and not the other way round, and it could very well be that we are time and not separate from time, and in that case we are consuming ourselves, and digesting ourselves and eliminating ourselves which provides fodder for time, which we are. we are time. we are time in and we are time out. and when we are time out does not mean that our clock has ceased to tick. but we tick on, who knows where and who knows how. who can say? but we try to say it via poetry. I know you try. not many do. but you do. George for you are time. mostly in. and definitely always on. time.

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